


Radio Silence

by virosodi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Partners to Lovers, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sedatephobia, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26183497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virosodi/pseuds/virosodi
Summary: Five times Gavin and RK900 visit each other and one time they’re already there.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	1. Oversight

**Author's Note:**

> 2 years ago i wrote this stupidly long outline for a slow burn case fic but decided to shorten it and make it, hopefully, more sappy :) it’s a small study of their relationship, things will change as the story progresses. enjoy! <3

“Okay, that’s fucking it.”

Gavin shoots out of his chair, shoving it aside, and looks at RK900 sitting on the other side of the desk among piled up files and pink sticky notes. He’s staring at the computer screen, spinning a pen around his fingers, keeping the other hand on the terminal, LED circling blue.

“I’m not staying here any longer,” Gavin spits out, shoving photos into the envelope. “It’s like a fucking ghost town, I can’t focus for shit.”

Apart from the receptionists in the main hall and an officer returning from the patrol, they’re the only ones there. The station is too quiet, too calm, and Gavin’s fingers itch.

“We could go to my unit in the CyberLife Tower. I’ve got everything we need there anyway,” RK900 spares him a glance and turns back to the screen, pen still spinning. “Though it’s too small for the two of us, I suppose.”

“Fuck no. If I’m pulling an all-nighter, we’re going to my place,” Gavin shuts the computer down with his foot, reaches for his phone and external drive and throws them into the box with the report. He looms over RK900, hands on his hips, raising his eyebrow. His palms sweat and he tightens the grip.

“So? You’re coming or not?”

RK900’s chair creaks when he leans back, pen locked between his fingers. He studies Gavin for a while, quiet and unmoving, and Gavin wonders if he’s calculating the probability of getting stabbed tonight or just lingering. The signboards across the street change and the light cuts through the dimmed room, catching RK900’s face.

“All right,” he says at last, standing up, and gathers his terminal back into the box, along with the envelope and DNA test results, scattered on Gavin’s side of the desk. He throws the pen into the cup and tucks the box under his arm. “Let’s go, then.”

Gavin eyes him in the light flickering from the street. It’s the end of May, rain pouring down third night in a row, and he’s still wearing the same shit Gavin first saw him in six months ago outside of Fowler’s office. And he has no idea why. Even Connor ditched his uniform back in February and changed that dumb hair, grew _curls_ , wears sneakers to work, laughs at Anderson’s stupid jokes.

Gavin tells himself he doesn’t care and tosses RK900 the keys. He catches them mid-air.

“You’re driving. I need a fucking nap.”

It’s past midnight when they arrive, rain still pouring, and Gavin runs to the building, draped in his jacket, trying to pull the keys out of his pocket. The parking lot is flooded, his shoes are wet and RK900 still looks the same, his hair unruffled and dry, LED calm blue. There are raindrops on his cheeks, but they’re long gone when Gavin gets to the top of the stairs and looks at RK900 over his shoulder.

“Didn’t have time to clean up,” he says, trying to sound like he doesn’t give a shit, and draws RK900’s attention from a tiny plant half-dying under the staircase window.

“I don’t mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Gavin doesn’t believe him.

He murmurs _I don’t_ , just for the sake of having the last word, and lets RK900 inside. It’s stifling and humid and the lightbulb blinks when RK900 turns the light on, even though he doesn’t need it. A buzzing sound fills up the hallway. Gavin throws his jacket on the dresser and navigates through the clutter on the floor to the living room windows.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, hoping RK900 won’t make any snarky comments or abundantly clear observations, and opens the windows, letting in the soft sound of rain.

He doesn’t and when Gavin comes back, their jackets are hanging on the coatrack and RK900 is still standing by the door, staring into the kitchen. He frowns, quiet, and points to the small, yellow bowls tucked under the counter in the dark.

“You’ve got a cat.”

It’s not a question, but Gavin humors him anyway. “Yeah, I do. Her name’s Whisky.”

He heads into the kitchen, switches the lights on and regrets it instantly. Dishes pile up in the sink, stacks of white paint sit squeezed under the table by the wall, half-colored and covered in spots, week-old crumbs lie scattered on the counter, no clean mugs in sight.

RK900 stares at him, blinks, and looks so baffled, Gavin is thorn between snorting or asking if he wants to fight. He bores his eyes into Gavin’s t-shirt, stiff and frowning.

“I didn’t detect any hair on your clothing, nor you chair.”

 _Oh_. So that’s it. A simple oversight.

“Sticky rollers,” he explains while RK900 looks, somehow, like Gavin’s letting him in on a secret. He tries not to think much of it and reaches for the last clean mug in the cabinet, puts the kettle on, scoops some coffee. “Though they’re no longer sticky, I guess.”

When Gavin heads to the living room, black coffee in hand, RK900 follows him, looking around the flat without a word, box still tucked under his arm.

“Be careful not to startle her, she can’t hear,” Gavin murmurs, putting the mug at the edge of the box he still hasn’t emptied, and turns on the lamp. RK900 helps him move the things covering up the table to the floor, lets them disappear among other never-used CDs, old police reports and books he didn’t have time to read, coated in dust.

They put the box on the table, cleaned more or less, set out the evidence and sit down, Gavin sinks into his armchair and RK900 takes a seat on the sofa next to a pile of sheets, bed covers and fluffy towels. Gavin looks at him, wants to start the rundown on the evidence collected so far, but falters, suddenly struck by oddity.

Windowsills specked in paint, his armchair, ugly-green, scratched and dusty, old sofa covered in stains and cigarettes burns, left by the previous owner, his counters, swollen and cracked, useless clutter taking his floor away, scattered without any real purpose other than to fill the empty space in his apartment— RK900 doesn’t belong to any of that. The only thing that seems to suit him is the wall behind him, spotless and cold, blindingly pristine.

Screeching meows cut through the air and Gavin startles, quickly looking away.

He reaches out at the same time Whisky jumps on his lap, barely avoids spilling his coffee and scratches behind her ear, ignoring RK900’s stare. She meows again, complaining, and bumps into his hand.

“Oh, same, believe me” he murmurs, nodding, and puts away the coffee to scratch at her neck. She quickly becomes more interested in paper sheets and jumps on the table, sits in the middle of the report and looks up at RK900, sweeping a photo of the victim’s knuckles away with her tail.

“She doesn’t look like whisky,” RK900 observes, looking back at the white cat before him, and Gavin rolls his eyes. “Though the name seems to be constructed well. Cats have evolved to hear high pitched sounds much better than low pitch sounds and since it’s easy to say _whisky_ using a high pitched voice, the name serves its purpose.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that was the reason the shelter named her that.”

RK900 doesn’t seem to catch the sarcasm. He extends his hand slowly, carefully, tilting his head in genuine curiosity, and lets Whisky sniff his fingers. When she leans back, he makes a move to pet her, but Whisky flings her paw and RK900’s arm jolts back so fast, he knocks the lamp over with his elbow. Gavin catches it in time and the cat runs away, leaving RK900’s dignity undermined.

“Why would she do this?” RK900 turns to him, looking more offended than when Tina mistook him for Connor on their night out, and Gavin snorts. “I wasn’t posing any threat.”

“She knew you were talking shit.”

“I wasn’t _talking shit_ ,” RK900 frowns and picks up the photo Whisky swept away to escape Gavin’s amused smirk.

“And you don’t even smell human. You’re probably like a large roomb—”

“All right, can we actually do what we came here for?” RK900 says, annoyed, taking his terminal out of the box, and even though Gavin enjoys every second of it, he lets RK900 have his way.

They do a quick rundown on the case, after he gives RK900 his wi-fi password, and end up in the same place as before, wired, frustrated, and out of coffee. Gavin sighs, takes the last swig and leans back into the armchair, looking at the time on his laptop.

“I’ll tell you when the autopsy report shows up,” RK900 says, putting his hand back on the terminal, and Gavin can’t help but watch how his skin peels away at the touch.

“Why couldn’t you do it?” he asks, taking his eyes off RK900’s fingers. “I bet it would be hundred times faster and we’d actually have _something_ to work with.”

“I wasn’t built for that.”

“Oh, yeah? And what were you built for? Everything else?” Gavin stands up, mug in hand, with the intent of adding another piece to the pile in the sink, but RK900’s answer locks him in place.

“The war.”

RK900’s tone is light, but it hits Gavin like a boulder. He whips around and stares, frowns, confused, but RK900 doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“What _war_?”

He doesn’t answer and it isn’t until Gavin sees a smirk creeping over his lips that he realizes RK900 is _joking_.

“Very fucking funny,” he grumbles, stalking away to the kitchen, trying to avoid RK900’s shit eating grin before it can flash before his eyes, smug and triumphant.

RK900 taunts him from the living room, clearly enjoying his moment, and Gavin does his best to ignore him. “Your heartrate spiked up. Significantly.”

He fixes the mug on a stack of plates in the sink and pulls the phone out of his pocket.

“I’ll call Anderson. Check if they've found the head,” he murmurs, knowing RK900 can hear him, leans against the table and looks out of the window, at the starless sky and rooftops gleaming from the rain.

When Gavin comes back, RK900 is sitting where he left him, hand on the terminal, marble-like and firm, eyes fixed on the screen. Gavin doesn’t bother telling him about the phone call, he knows RK900 heard that too.

“Give me an hour,” RK900 removes his hand from the terminal, and leans back, taking a quick look at Gavin. “I’ll search through the footage from city cameras I have access to.”

His shirt crinkles when he moves and Gavin has a sudden urge to smoothen it out.

“We’ve already done that.”

“Yes, from the streets surrounding the crime scene. I’ll check the city and places around Detroit. If I find something worth noting, I’ll pass it to you.”

Gavin looks at him, wondering, for a split of second, how long it would take him to do the same, and nods, sinking back into his armchair, moving the laptop to his side of the table. The room falls quiet, suddenly cramped and dim, and Gavin plugs his earphones in, searches through the playlists saved in his library and settles on _vibes_ , stretching his legs under the table.

He wiggles his fingers on the floor when Whisky looms around the corner, peeking into the room, but she doesn’t move, fixed on RK900’s LED slowly circling blue.


	2. Syntax Error

_I’ll call you in the morning_.

RK900’s voice tolls in his head like a bell when Gavin rushes to the hallway, forced out of the shower by persisted pounding on the door, wet hair sticking to his temples, clothes clinging to his skin. The sound digs into his skull and Gavin flings the door open, wants to ask _why_ , instead of calling, RK900’s standing outside his apartment at six thirty in the fucking morning, trying to unhinge his door, but RK900 looks at him, eyes bright, and Gavin bites down the words.

“We were right,” he says, the moment the door hurls open, and makes his way inside, squeezing between Gavin’s shoulder and the wall still reeking of paint.

Gavin doesn’t stop him.

“Search team found the head three hours ago in Kent Lake.”

There’s a skip in his step, an edge in his voice, his eyes fucking _twinkle_ , and Gavin really, _really_ should find this annoying, but he can’t. Instead, he closes the door and heads to the kitchen, ignoring the way RK900 falls into step beside him without missing a beat.

“Why didn’t you call?” he murmurs, stalks to the fridge, takes out a jar of strawberry jam and slides it over the counter while RK900 looms over him, tucked into the corner.

“I did,” RK900 blinks, taking his eyes off the kettle held in Gavin’s hands. “Four times.”

“Yeah, next time try five before tearing my door of its fucking hinges,” it comes out quiet, almost flimsy, and Gavin puts bread into the toaster, waiting for the water to boil.

He looks over his shoulder, lingers over RK900’s temple where a week-old scar now sits, engraved in his casing, distorting a patch of his skin. It shimmers blue in the morning light, a silent reminder, just a sliver of another drug bust gone mad, and yet, Gavin’s stomach turns every time he sees it.

“I identified the victim,” RK900 doesn’t register his answer, or simply pays it no mind, and sits by the table, crossing his legs. “It’s Noah Shaw. He graduated MIT in 2018 and worked for CyberLife as a quantum engineer from 2019 to 2027.”

Gavin whips around, spoon in hand. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” RK900 sighs. “Though I wish I wasn’t.”

Gavin leans against the counter, letting that sink in, watching how the sun catches RK900’s nose when he shifts to rest his head on the palm of his hand. A lock of hair falls over his forehead, curled and out of place, and Gavin feels the need to flick it away.

“Shit, okay,” the kettle toots, switching itself off, and Gavin spins around. “They fired him?”

“No. He resigned and left the country shortly after, came back on the eighteenth of May after living in Moldova for twelve years.”

“Great,” Gavin makes a cup of coffee and tries not to burn his fingertips flinging the toasts on a plate. “Guy comes back after living abroad for over a decade and gets killed in less than a week. It looks like a personal vendetta type of shit.”

RK900 hums and when Gavin turns around, he’s looking out of the window, at the rooftops drenched in sunlight and a small greenhouse stuck on top with glass panes reflecting the clouds.

“It could be someone from Moldova too,” he says, facing Gavin when he puts the jam between them and sits across the table, coffee in hand. “They could tail him from there and wait for Noah to drop his guard.”

Gavin muses, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Wait,” he says around a mouthful of toast, pointing at RK900 before swallowing his food. “He resigned around the time Kamski left the company, right? And he shows up right after a fucking revolution. I’m sure as a main engineer he knew a lot of classified shit.”

“Maybe. But we can only speculate for now.”

“Yeah, I know,” Gavin sighs, leaning back into his chair. “Any info on his family? Friends?”

“I looked through the social media, but found nothing of interest,” RK900 says. “I couldn’t link him to any profile, active or not, which is bizarre, given that eighty nine percent of the United States population has at least two of them.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking weird.”

“I tracked his family, though. His father died when Noah was eleven, but his mother still lives in Detroit. I’ll—” RK900 looks behind his shoulder, trailing off, and reaches to his breast pocket. “I’ll send you the address.”

A faint ring echoes from the bathroom while Gavin devours the last piece of his food, but he tunes it out, watching how RK900 stands up and moves towards the hallway, small paper bag in hand. He stays put, back turned and slightly bent, staring into the empty, and it isn’t until Gavin leans to the side, frowning, that he notices a white paw peeking from around the corner.

“He was an only child, never married, no offspring,” RK900 murmurs, squatting down, and takes something out of the bag before slowly putting it on the floor, LED circling yellow.

It’s a _cat treat_. RK900 is squatting in front of his cat, in the middle of his kitchen, giving her treats first thing in the morning, and Gavin bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.

“Are you bribing my cat?” he asks, amused, when Whisky’s nose peeps into the kitchen, sniffing the air.

RK900 looks over his shoulder, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and reaches to the bag nested in his hand. “I’m forming a strategic relationship.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s bribing.”

Whisky, pleased either way, snatches the treat and sits in front of RK900, tail swept over her paws.

“I hope she’ll remember this,” RK900 murmurs, placing another piece in front of Whisky, this time a little bit closer, careful not to startle her.

Gavin snorts. “Oh, I’m sure. She’ll nag you about food every time she sees you.”

“I don’t mind.”

It’s soft and genuine and Gavin can’t help but smile, lips hidden in the palm of his hand on which his head is resting. When Whisky accepts the treat and struts away to the table, RK900 stands up, putting the paper bag back into his pocket.

“As for the head,” he says, turning to Gavin, drawing his attention back from Whisky brushing against Gavin’s outstretched hand. “We confirmed the cause of death. Noah was shot, point-blank, in his forehead at close range and had two bruises of different shape on his cheek and his chin.”

Gavin looks up at him, scratching behind Whisky’s ear. “One from a fist, the other from the gun?”

“Precisely,” RK900 nods, sliding his hands into the pockets. “It was an execution-style murder, planned and carried out with a purpose.”

“So,” Gavin says, finishing his coffee, and stands up to put the dishes into the sink. “They dragged him to the warehouse, knocked him down before shooting in the head, took his watch, cut off his fingertips _and_ his head and drove off to throw it into the lake?”

RK900 walks up to the window and leans against the frame, looking out at the rooftops, or the sky, Gavin can’t tell. When he turns, his pupils are barely visible, small dots drowning in sunlight.

“Based on what we know so far, yes.”

Gavin hums, his back digging into the counter, and stares at RK900’s profile, traces the line of his jaw, the tip of his nose, the small birthmark on his cheek, bright and marble-like in the sun. 

“I know where he was staying,” RK900 says and Gavin’s eyes snap to his. “Rivertown Inn, 1316 East Jefferson Avenue. Meet me there when you talk to his mother.”

“Sure thing,” Gavin peels himself from the counter, when RK900 moves past him towards the door, and notices a trail of white paint on his jacket, just below his collar. “Wait, you’ve got the— the paint on your back, the walls haven’t dried yet.”

RK900 stops, looks at Gavin over his shoulder when he grabs a piece of paper towel, and frowns, taking off the jacket.

“I didn’t realize,” he murmurs, inspecting the paint. “Thank you.”

Gavin eyes him, damping the towel with water, lingers over RK900’s wrists, the cuffs of his shirt, his fingers holding the fabric, and hands him the towel, looking away, leaning back against the counter.

The stain comes off with one swipe and Gavin frowns, staring at the jacket.

“Why are you still wearing that?” he asks, before he can stop himself, but RK900 doesn’t seem to mind. He walks up to the bin to throw the towel away.

“I don’t have any bad memories regarding CyberLife, unlike Connor. It’s just a piece of clothing,” he explains and looks up at Gavin. “But I can take it off if it makes you uncomfortable.”

 _Uncomfortable_. It would make Gavin livid a few months back, but it’s different now, and Gavin tells himself he doesn’t know why.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just—it makes you look stuck-up. Like a Tron villain,” he manages and RK900 tilts his head. “You don’t want to try something more, I don’t know, more natural? More human-looking?”

RK900 studies him for a brief moment, eyes piercing through, and the silence rams into Gavin’s skull. He moves, looking away, down at his jacket, and when he speaks, it’s quiet, almost like it’s not meant for Gavin to hear.

“Because _human_ is the only way, right?”

It’s not a question and yet, Gavin feels like he should know the answer. He stammers, throat tight, trying to explain, catching RK900’s eyes. His stomach twists at the sight.

“No, I— You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

RK900 hums, turning away, and puts on the jacket, escapes Gavin’s eyes.

“Of course,” he says, tone light, and Gavin tightens the grip on the counter to stop himself from reaching. “Text me when you’re done with the mother.”

Gavin swallows the lump in his throat and stares at RK900’s back when he moves to the hallway after taking the last look at Whisky sitting by Gavin’s feet. He echoes.

“Of course.”

The door shuts with a thud and Gavin sighs, closing his eyes, with a silent _see you later_ stuck in the back of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long but i had final exams at my uni so i was very busy,, hope you like it regardless and please tell me what you think <3


	3. 01000001 01001101 01001001

It’s five past nine, RK900 is late and Gavin wonders, stuck in his car with a broken radio and a dead cellphone, looking at the clock for the hundredth time over the last ten minutes, how the _fuck_ Whisky found his charger. He ignores the voice in his head, which sounds suspiciously similar to RK900, reminding him that the mess in his apartment creates plenty of space for a cat to hide a piece of cable, and looks out of the window, at the CyberLife Tower looming at the end of the parking lot. Gavin sizes up the structure, mouth dry, and leans back in his seat, glances at the clock.

 _Six minutes_. RK900 is six minutes late and the world must be ending, surely, right before his eyes.

The silence crawls and Gavin’s hands sweat, his leg bounces, hitting the steering wheel, but Gavin doesn’t notice. He looks at the clock again, throat tight, and his stomach twists at the sight.

The digits stay the same.

“No. Fuck no,” he spits out, grabbing the keys, and flings the door open. “Fuck that.”

He gets out of the car, sun in his eyes, and drags himself across the parking lot, the courtyard, up to the Tower, through the front door and another, smaller, leading to the main hall. It feels like walking through a pit full of needles.

The hall, vast and dim, with a vault so high Gavin can barely see its end, is almost empty. There’s someone by the front desk, holding a pen between their fingers, and two silhouettes talking in the corner, by the fountain, next to a blooming tree. Its leaves are reaching, touching the glass walls encasing everything within.

Gavin hauls himself to the front desk, feet heavy, manages an _excuse me_ before asking for RK900’s room when the woman looks up from her tablet. She smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Are you on the guest list, sir?”

Her voice is gentle, soothing, and Gavin repeats the words in his head over and over again. He opens his mouth, wants to say something, anything at all, just to break the silence, but he can’t.

 _He just doesn’t know_.

The woman nods, gives him another smile meant to comfort, and asks, putting her tablet away. “May I have your ID, please?”

Gavin complies, watching, transfixed, how her skin peels away at the touch when she puts her hand on the screen. His eyes snap to her temple, but the LED isn’t there, and he looks away, stomach turning with guilt.

“RK900#1…” she murmurs, taps the screen a few times, focused on his ID, and looks up, returning the card, skin wrapping back around her hand. “Take the elevator on the right, please, up to the fiftieth floor. RK900’s unit will be at the end of the corridor, number 2846.”

She turns back to her tablet after wishing him a good day and Gavin stalks to the elevator, trying not to think about RK900 putting his name on the list. He ignores the pit in his stomach and presses the button, walks inside, ears ringing, goes up, up the fifty floors, across the hallway and through the corridor, dark and endless.

The door to RK900’s room blends with the concrete wall, there’s no handle, and when Gavin knocks on the stone-like surface, it clicks open without any delay. RK900’s voice reaches him before he can cross the threshold.

“I apologize. I tried to contact you, but I couldn’t reach you,” it’s rushed and taut, and Gavin can’t help but think he’s annoyed with the way the words drag themselves so they can be perceived.

“Yeah, my phone’s dead.”

Gavin walks inside, door clicking behind him, and finds RK900 in the corner, next to a large window, with one hand on the terminal placed below a holographic screen. He’s wearing a black turtleneck, back turned, and Gavin stares, caught in the middle of the room.

“Whisky— Whisky took my charger,” he explains, quickly looking away when RK900 glances over his shoulder before turning back to the screen.

“I’m sorry. I should have minded the clock.”

“No worries, Kamski won’t have us before eleven,” Gavin murmurs, spinning, slowly looking around the room.

It’s small, empty like the rest of the Tower, with white walls, grey carpet, bearing only a desk, an armchair and a tiny plant sat by the window in a pink flowerpot, looking like mint.

“What about Noah’s e-mails?” he asks, staring at the back of RK900’s head, sliding his hands into the pockets.

“We’re still trying to decrypt them. We got one a moment ago, but it took ten days,” RK900 says, focused on the screen, and Gavin frowns, seeing how frustrated he really is. “It’s inefficient. And I’m starting to think close to impossible as well.”

“Even for you? And Connor?”

RK900 shifts. He turns around, back pressed against the desk, and when he looks at Gavin, the corner of his lips tilts up, his face softens. It’s fleeting, easy to miss, but it’s there and something tugs at Gavin’s heart.

“Yes,” RK900 says and his voice carries softly. “Even for me. And Connor.”

Their eyes meet and Gavin smiles, watches how RK900 spins around and places his hand on the terminal to show him the e-mail. He walks up to the window, leans against the frame stretching all the way to the ceiling and looks at the screen, standing next to RK900’s shoulder.

“Each of them is individually encrypted, requires a different key,” RK900 explains and opens one of the e-mails. “This one is from someone called Laila Kanerva, dated August 2025, regarding a private meeting. Two years before Noah quit his job. Read the address.”

_189 Vinewood Street._

Gavin straightens, his eyes snap back to RK900. “That’s where we found the body.”

“A coincidence?”

“We’ll find out,” he muses and leans back, rests his head on the frame. “Anderson knows?”

RK900 hums, turning off the screen. “He’s with Connor. They’re trying to track Kanerva down.”

“Sweet. So we’re good to go?” Gavin peels himself from the frame and looks at RK900, his shoulders are tense, back straight as an arrow.

“Yes, just— Give me a moment.”

RK900 unplugs the terminal, walks up to the opposite wall and when he waves in front it, part of the concrete slides away, revealing two dress shirts, a pair of dark trousers, RK900’s android jacket and a black one, plain, with its sleeve sticking outside of the closet. RK900 reaches out, takes the sleeve between his fingers and stops, staring at the fabric.

He stays like this, motionless, locked in place, face turned down, and Gavin looks at the sleeve, looks at RK900, and suddenly, it clicks. _He understands._

“You’re worried about what he’ll say?”

RK900 doesn’t answer. His shoulders slump and he sighs, glancing up at Gavin. “It’s nonsensical, I know.”

“No, it’s not,” Gavin shakes his head and his throat tightens when RK900 looks away, down into the depths of the closet. His eyes are heavy, face set, and Gavin surges forward without thinking.

“Okay, listen. Let’s say God, or whatever, is chilling out there somewhere and I am to meet them. And I wear whatever I want,” he says, drawing back RK900’s attention. “Of course they are happy. Exactly because I am the one who made that choice. Because I _could_.”

RK900 stares at him, silent, and when Gavin’s heart is about to sink right through his fucking stomach, he snorts, hiding his face in the palm of his hand. He looks at Gavin with bright eyes and echoes softly, voice nearly a whisper.

“If they’re chilling…”

“If not, fuck them,” Gavin shrugs and his heart flips when RK900 smiles, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Wear whatever the fuck you want, R.”

They stay like this for a brief moment, eyes locked, ghost of a smile on RK900’s lips, until he turns to his clothes, takes the jacket and puts it on, blue band on his arm shimmering in the morning light. He slides the closet door shut, adjusts his collar, and turns to the desk, taking his terminal.

Gavin looks at him, lingers over RK900’s profile longer than he should.

“Ready?”

RK900 nods, turns to him, eyes soft, hands relaxed at his sides, and something blooms in Gavin’s heart, something tender, too sudden, too sincere to last. He ignores it, shifting, with a murmur thrown over his shoulder.

“Let’s go. Before Kamski decides to fuck us over.”

They walk to the parking lot in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and the only thing Gavin can focus on is his broken radio, mocking, waiting for him in the car with a dead cellphone tossed onto the passenger’s seat. He tightens the grip on his keys, closes his eyes, sighing when RK900 gets inside the car, and follows, slumps on the seat behind the steering wheel, puts the key in the ignition.

RK900 takes a look at him, getting Gavin’s phone out from underneath his thigh. “Do you know how to get there?”

“No,” Gavin murmurs, takes the phone out of RK900’s hand and throws it on the dashboard. “Just tell me where to turn.”

RK900 hums, his LED spinning blue. “ETA is forty three minutes.”

Gavin’s head swims. He nods, starts the car and ignores RK900’s surprised look, trying to focus on getting out of the parking lot.

“No Metric this morning?” RK900 asks, folding his hands on his lap. “We’re brooding already?”

“Speakers aren’t working.”

“Pity,” he sighs. “I’ve already adjusted my hearing.”

Gavin knows he’s just teasing, they always do that, his music too loud, too old, RK900’s shitty fashion sense manifesting undercover, his obliviousness. Gavin _knows_. But it doesn’t stop him from grabbing the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, fingers cold as ice.

RK900 falters. He looks at Gavin and asks, voice quiet, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

“What does it have to do with my fucking radio?”

Gavin’s sure his heartrate must be flashing across RK900’s vision, but he doesn’t care, trying to focus on the road in front of them. RK900 studies him, silent, eyes piercing through his head.

“Nothing,” he says at last, looking away, leaning back in his seat. “You haven’t told me to fuck off yet.”

Their eyes meet and RK900 smiles, it’s timid, barely there, but Gavin breaks, eases the grip on the steering wheel, letting the corner of his lips tip up in a half-amused smirk.

“It’s still early,” he murmurs and RK900 leans his head on the window, smile dancing on his lips. “You’re working on those e-mails?”

RK900 hums, stretching his legs, crossing one over the other. “It’s running in the background.”

“Tell me how it works.”

A beat passes and RK900 turns his head, staring, eyes so bright, Gavin’s heart aches. The feeling comes back, but he doesn’t fight it anymore, and it stays, warm and tender, nestled between RK900’s words, in his hands softly flowing in tune, in the slow turning of the clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry (a little bit) for that stupidly poetic ending but i couldn't help myself. thank you for waiting and please, tell me what you think <3 also, i created a _radio silence_ playlist ([spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7HaoPaao4ZsZgcpFJxhAfk?si=dd_WxhAdS5OG_FWKuJcXAg), [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQvgc__RVNF5CP60pQ_HUOEHtMCdJbqf_)) ^-^


	4. Semaphore

Last notes of The Whisky Charmers spill out of the bar and Gavin’s head swims. He’s out of air, half of his face numb, Kanerva’s pocket knife lying by his feet, and he tips over, sinking to his knees, pressing his cheek into the crook of his arm to stop it from bleeding down onto the collar of his shirt. He breathes in, lips open, nostrils filled with blood, and chokes, shuts his eyes, but the blue lights keep swirling, curling, dancing around him in the dark.

It’s his own fault, really. A stupid mistake, such a stupid fucking thing to reel from, almost heaving on the ground, and Gavin could laugh, clenched fists digging into the hard floor, because he knows RK900’s got them now.

He’s got them. He always does. _He always—_

“Gavin!”

Hands twist in the lapels of his jacket, forcing his back to straighten, and Gavin gives in, arm falling to the side, eyes snapping open. He looks up, laying his weight on the arms in front of him, and sees the lights dance on RK900’s lips, on his temple, against his LED burning, flashing red before Gavin’s eyes.

“Did you get them?” he manages through his teeth, bloody and gritted, and RK900 drops to his knees, curls his fingers around Gavin’s chin, tilting back his head. “They ran into the alley, I saw them.”

RK900 doesn’t answer. His eyes dart from the cut on Gavin’s cheek to the bridge of his nose, his stomach, his knuckles, scraped and bruised, lying on RK900’s thigh. He lingers, motionless, face turned down, eyes fixed on Gavin’s hands, unblinking and empty.

“R, did you get them?” Gavin leans forward, trying to meet his eyes, but RK900 doesn’t move.

His nails dig into Gavin’s chin, hand twists further into the leather of his jacket, and Gavin jolts his arm, grabbing RK900’s wrists. He yanks them down, pulls them together, fingers curled around RK900’s skin, pressing hard into his chassis.

RK900 snaps his head upwards. He blinks, meeting Gavin’s eyes, but Gavin doesn’t let go, holding RK900’s wrists even when he speaks, even when his LED circles back to yellow.

“Anderson,” RK900 blurts out, falling back on his heels, looking down at Gavin’s hands, at the back wall of the bar, the alley stretching around them, reeking of sweat and blood. “Anderson has them. Connor’s checking the basements with the others.”

Gavin stares at him, heart sinking right through his fucking stomach, because he _knows_ RK900 had to abandon his spot, turn back the moment Kanerva crushed his earpiece under their foot, and he looks away, away from RK900’s eyes.

“Their skin broke,” he says through gritted teeth, through the crushing pain in his jaw, and looks down, watching how RK900’s skin peels away under his fingers.

Gavin lets go of his wrists and when he lifts his hand, RK900 reaches out without a word. He lingers, staring at Gavin's knuckles, at his bruises covered in blood, and touches his hand, trailing over his skin with his fingertips. They're cold and gentle, and for a brief moment Gavin wants them to stay, but RK900 takes away his hand, observing how the blood left on his fingers dissolves into thin air.

“It’s not them,” he whispers, skin wrapping back around his hand, and Gavin tears his eyes away from RK900’s fingers, his head swimming. “The DNA doesn’t match the one found on Noah’s body.”

Gavin closes his eyes. He sighs, letting his body fall on the wall behind him, cold and wet from the midnight rain. He can hear RK900 moving away, a towering shadow against the flickering blues of the emergency lights.

“Connor will make them talk,” RK900 says, voice quiet, and if Gavin didn’t know better, the words would turn his stomach inside-out. “They’re compromised already.”

 _Compromised_. It stands for “fucked” in RK900’s dictionary, Gavin knows it too well, and he snorts, looking up, head leaning against the wall. The cut on his cheek burns, sending waves of gnawing pain down to his fingertips, but he ignores it, flashing RK900 a grin, his teeth bloody.

RK900’s face remains blank and when he reaches out, Gavin takes his hand, letting RK900 hoist him up from the ground.

“I’ll take you to the medic.”

“Fuck that,” Gavin shakes his head, leaning briefly on RK900’s arm before forcing his body to straighten, grimacing when his knee cracks. “I’m going home. Just get the knife to Tina.”

He turns around, throat tight, with the intent of stalking back to his car thrown over the curb two blocks away, but RK900 stops him, getting hold of his arm. Their eyes meet when Gavin looks over his shoulder and RK900 shifts, his face falls, hand drops down.

“I’ll drive,” he murmurs, looking away, pulling out a clear ziploc bag out of his pocket, and turns around to scoop the knife off the ground. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

Gavin wants to tell him to leave, to go back to Connor scouring the basements, because they need him _there_ , but he doesn’t. He hums instead, ignores a sudden ache in his heart and turns to the street, stalking away with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.

RK900 comes back exactly fifteen minutes later and finds Gavin in the passenger’s seat, listening to the police radio set on NOAA, fingers curled around the sleeve of his jacket, head slumped against the window. He doesn’t move when RK900 gets inside, watching the rain skitter through the halo of light formed by the street lamp above.

“They asked about you,” RK900 says, shutting the door, reaches for the keys lying on the dashboard and starts the car, eyes darting to Gavin’s profile before settling on the wing mirror.

Gavin hums over the noise. “What did you tell them?”

“I lied.”

RK900 looks over his shoulder, reversing the car, rolling onto the empty street, and Gavin turns his head, heartbeat slowing down. His lips tip up in a tiny smile and he murmurs, sinking further into the seat.

“There’s no way they believed you.”

“I know. Nonetheless—” RK900 says, taking a quick look at Gavin, “—it’s all right.”

Their eyes meet in the dark and when RK900 turns back to the road, corner of his lips tilted up, Gavin glides over his profile illuminated by the lights floating by. He watches RK900 drive, follows his hands slowly turning the steering wheel, shifting the gears, and, for the briefest of moments, the pain splitting Gavin’s face in half eases into a dream.

“It’ll leave a scar.”

RK900’s voice hangs in the air, quiet, remorseful almost, and Gavin shifts, tearing his eyes away. He lowers his fingers, realizing he’s been feeling around the cut on his cheek without taking any notice of it, and leans against the window, sticking his hands into the sleeves of his jacket, suddenly too aware of their existence.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, face pressed against the cold glass, eyes fixed on the river winding in the glow of the city.

He doesn’t see RK900’s intent eyes watching him between every turn, but he knows they’re there. They always are. And somehow, the dread in the pit of his stomach simmers down, hollow ache stops rattling his bones.

Gavin closes his eyes and drifts off, letting the gentle pull of the car lull him into slumber.

After parking next to the entrance twenty minutes later, RK900 wakes him up with a gentle tap on the elbow and when he follows Gavin to the building, quiet, a soaring shadow above his shoulder, Gavin doesn’t say a word. They scramble on top of the stairs, through the front door, into the dark hallway, and Gavin throws the jacket on the floor, almost tips over trying to take off his shoes, remembering, despite the dull pain blasting apart his skull, that two days ago he mopped those floors clean.

He stalks to the kitchen, turning on the lights, and RK900 lines up their shoes next to the coatrack, follows, walks up to the window and leans against it, observing how Gavin splashes his face with water after washing his hands in a rush. He wipes his face with paper towel, suppressing a hiss, and yanks the cabinets open, takes out a bottle of painkillers, swallows the pills dry.

The kit, with a sign stating in Lou Reed’s chicken scratch _in case of severe decking_ , sits in the bottom of the drawer and Gavin throws it on the counter, tries to open it up, hands shaking, but his fingers slip on the clamps, sending the kit to the floor. He winces at the noise, gritting his teeth.

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Let me,” RK900 rushes forward and picks up the box before Gavin has a chance to react.

He sets it on the table, moves the chair over, placing it in front of Gavin, and looks at him, eyes soulful grey.

“Just let me.”

His voice is quiet when he speaks, tender, a touch that isn’t there, and Gavin stares at him, at his watchful eyes, at his fingers curled inside the sleeve of his jacket. His head swims, shoulders drop down, and he wonders, leaning against the counter, if it’s the pills or his own heart.

Gavin nods, shifting, looking away, and breathes, chest lighter, sinking into the chair, watching how RK900 takes off his jacket to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. After washing his hands and damping a clean cloth from the kit with water and soap, RK900 sits down in front of him, his jacket hung over the chair, and lifts his hand, curls his fingers under Gavin’s chin, supporting his head.

His fingertips are warm, gentle, and he doesn’t waver, pressing the material to Gavin’s skin, cleaning around the wound, his hand steady, so careful Gavin barely feels a thing. It’s soothing, a soft caress, and he looks into RK900’s eyes, bright and clear, focused on the cut on his cheek.

RK900 remains silent. He moves, reaching for the bottle of sealed saline solution, and Gavin studies his wrists, remembers the dread twisting the lines on his face, his empty eyes, his LED, now calm blue, flashing red in the darkness of the alley.

The fingers curl back around his chin and RK900 leans forward, lips so close Gavin could feel the air on his skin, but RK900 doesn’t breathe. His eyes are searching, inspecting, when he cleanses the wound, and Gavin wants to say something, anything, to keep his heart from ramming into his chest, but the only thing loud enough to drown it out is the question ringing in his head.

_Why?_

The _why_ that’s been building up for weeks, altering his reality, hijacking the train of his thoughts, and it makes him sick to let it out, but RK900’s hands are gentle, his fingertips are warm.

When Gavin speaks, his voice is nearly a whisper.

“Why are you here?”

RK900’s hand falters. He shifts, meeting Gavin’s eyes, and looks away, reaches for the cloth, pats the wound with the clean end of the fabric.

“You nearly lost your eye,” he says, trying to mask the confusion in his voice with sobriety.

“No, I— I mean in general. You wanted to change the precinct two months ago, I heard you then. You were talking with Connor in the common room,” Gavin manages, throat tight, observing how RK900 takes a packet of medical gel and seals the cut, fingers gliding over his skin. “Why didn’t you?”

The question hangs in the air and RK900 leans back, turning his head, hand moving away.

“I wanted to, at first,” he explains, voice quiet, wiping his fingers with the fabric. “It seemed like the right thing to do, but—”

RK900 lingers, looking down at his fingertips, at his wrists resting on his thigh, and moves, lifts his head. His eyes are kind, honest, marble abyss, and Gavin feels like he’s sixteen again, falling head over handles into the cold river.

“But you’re okay,” RK900 whispers at last. “We’re okay.”

The purity of the statement stills them both.

Gavin stares at him, at his hands folded up on his lap, and echoes, heart pounding, looking back into RK900’s eyes.

“Yeah, R. We’re okay.”

Something blooms in RK900’s eyes, something fond and tender, and he smiles, taking a piece of gauze to cover Gavin’s wound.

It’s a delicate smile, not the one Gavin sees after a clever retort or when he actually manages to do something decent for once. The smile is barely there, like it wasn’t meant for him to see, but it stays with Gavin for the rest of the night.

“I need to lay down,” he mutters when RK900 tapes the gauze to his cheek, standing up so fast the room spins.

His heartbeat slows down after he stumbles into the bedroom and changes his clothes, hearing from behind the door how RK900 puts the box back into the drawer. He walks into the living room, wiggles his fingers to greet Whisky lurking around the armchair and flings himself on the couch.

She chirps in response, jumping on the table, and sits down, eyes fixed on RK900 looming by the door.

“Connor linked Kanerva’s DNA to the case of Emily Lim,” he states, walking up to the armchair, and Gavin lifts his head, stares at him in surprise. “You were right. It’s all connected.”

RK900 looks away, at Whisky sitting in front of him, tail swept over her paws, and Gavin drops his head back onto the pillow, smiling, telling himself he doesn’t know if it’s from the praise or the image before him.

He murmurs, catching RK900’s eyes, watching how he sinks down into the armchair. “Hold out your hand.”

A beat passes, but RK900 complies, reaches out, unsure, taking a quick look at Gavin, and Whisky shifts. She struts closer, sniffs his fingertips and bumps her head straight into RK900’s hand, lifting up her tail.

RK900’s eyes widen. He beams, eyes crinkling, reaching behind Whisky’s ear, leaning closer, and it’s soft, so soft, Whisky purring, circling around RK900’s hand, his fingers buried deep in her fur.

Gavin tears his eyes away, heart suddenly aching.

They talk about the case, about Noah and Emily, Gavin lying on the couch, facing the ceiling, RK900 in the armchair with Whisky sticking around his feet. They talk until Gavin is too tired to speak and the only thing he sees is that smile, soft and gentle, dancing on RK900’s lips.

He falls asleep, listening to RK900’s voice, arm thrown over his face, and when he wakes up two hours later with a numb hand and a sore neck, there is a blanket covering him up all the way to his chin and Whisky, warm and dreaming, curled up on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> those past few weeks were a living nightmare but here it is <3 i hope the contents will make up for this long wait, at least a little bit :( also, i want to share this cute quote i read in a book while preparing for one of my lectures, it's soft and it reminded me of reed900 in the context of my story.
> 
> _for, under the imaginary table that separates us, don't we secretly clasp each other's hands?_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! <3 i’m not a native english speaker so i'm very sorry if i messed something up. you can check out [my small hankcon one-shots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virosodi/works) if you like plants, slow dancing and sappy times in the mountains :) and u can find me on my tumblr sideblog [@gvynbleidd](http://gvynbleidd.tumblr.com/) <3


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